Dark Blood

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Nicked it from the lost-and-found. Get your mate the van driver in an interview room and I’ll go see Lord Volderfinnie.’

  The sim card was about the only bit of Logan’s mobile still in one piece. He popped the back off his new – slightly stolen – phone, slipped it in, and turned the thing on. There was a small pause, then the dings and bleeps started. ‘YOU HAVE 57 NEW MESSAGES’.

  Logan switched it off again. Sod that.

  He headed downstairs instead, signed the van driver out of custody and stuck him in interview room number two. The one with the broken radiator, that stank of cheesy feet.

  Arnie Urquhart cupped his hands to his mouth and blew. He had ‘HATE’ tattooed between both sets of knuckles, a blue swallow on the side of his neck, a spider’s web on his wrist, and eyes that darted left and right every time anyone in the room moved.

  Logan sat on the other side of the interview room table, the audio and video tapes all set up and ready to go as soon as DI Steel arrived. PC Butler was on looming duty, just over Urquhart’s shoulder.

  The van driver licked his lips. ‘Always this cold in here?’

  Logan stared at him. ‘Did I say you could speak?’

  Urquhart shrank back in his seat. ‘Sorry.’

  So much for the hard man act.

  He was right though, the little room was freezing.

  Logan thumped an evidence bag down on the tabletop. There were two rectangular packages inside, both about the size of a house brick, wrapped in light-brown packing tape. One was slit open, showing the hard-packed powder within. ‘Uncut heroin. About six hundred and fifty thousand quid’s worth.’

  Urquhart squirmed. ‘It’s—’

  ‘Did that sound like a question to you?’

  He pressed his lips together. Looked down at his tattooed hands. Shrugged.

  ‘This stuff came from Fraserburgh, didn’t it? Saturday night.’

  Urquhart fidgeted.

  ‘You can answer that.’

  ‘It…I don’t…’

  ‘A DI was stabbed, Arnie. That’s attempted murder, and you’re an accomplice.’

  He flinched, as if he’d been slapped. ‘But…’

  Logan suppressed a smile. Now all they needed was Steel to get her finger out and—

  The door opened. Speak of the devil. The inspector stood just outside the room, lips pressed into a thin, downturned line. ‘Stick him back in his cell.’

  Logan got to his feet. ‘Mr Urquhart was just about to—’

  ‘I don’t care. Our wee art student friend with the counterfeit twenties: his mum and dad just got back from Corfu, found him in his bedroom. Gin and sleeping tablets.’

  41

  ‘He was in here.’ The PC opened the door.

  The familiar smells of turpentine, oil paint, and bitter vomit curled around Logan as he followed Steel into the room. The house was silent, just the tick-tock of a clock somewhere on the floor below.

  The constable flicked on the light, turning the window into a mirror.

  Douglas Walker’s bedroom looked much the same as it had the last time Logan was there: the same half-sketched painting on the easel, the same unmade single bed, the same flat-pack wardrobe, the same little computer desk and cheap swivel chair.

  The only difference was the puddle of sick on the floor, next to an empty litre bottle of Plymouth gin and a little white packet from a chemists. Logan snapped on a pair of gloves, squatted down, picked up the empty packet and read the label. ‘Temazepam.’

  Steel wrinkled her nose. ‘Can we no’ open a window or something?’

  Logan levered up the edge of the mattress, peering between it and the bed frame. Nothing.

  The inspector’s voice came from over by the wardrobe. ‘If you’re looking for porn, I can bring some in tomorrow. You like Dutch gay hardcore, right?’

  ‘Looking for counterfeit money, actually. If he was getting more in for Middleton it’ll be around here somewhere.’ He let the mattress fall back and Steel sat on the end.

  She glanced around the room. ‘He leave a note or anything?’

  The constable shrugged. ‘Dunno, didn’t want to disturb anything.’

  ‘Bet he left a poem. Artistic types always leave bloody poetry.’

  Logan went through the chest of drawers, wardrobe, computer desk, the toolbox full of oil paints and charcoals, but there was no sign of any notes – suicide or counterfeit. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Wanted to keep it mysterious.’

  Logan stared at her. ‘It’s not funny.’

  She shrugged. ‘If he’d actually managed to do himself in, then it wouldn’t be funny, but he didn’t, did he? Cocked it up. That’s bloody students for you: they’ll no’ put the effort in.’

  The constable shifted his feet. ‘He’s in a coma.’

  Logan knelt on the floor, taking care to avoid the puddle of sick. Nothing under the bed either.

  ‘Don’t see what the problem is.’ Steel leant back and had a scratch. ‘I mean, you want to kill yourself – up to you isn’t it? Long as you don’t do it driving the wrong way up the motorway, it’s nobody’s business but…’ She stopped fiddling with herself and scowled at Logan. ‘What?’

  ‘He was terrified they were going to put his name in the papers.’

  ‘Didn’t want mummy and daddy dearest to know.’

  ‘Or,’ Logan stood, taking another look around the room, ‘maybe he thought whoever he got the cash from would come after him? Might be some clue in the suicide note, if we can find it.’

  ‘He’s no’ bloody dead. Want to know why he did it? Get your arse up the hospital and ask him.’

  Logan dragged a big, black leather portfolio out from between the wardrobe and the single bed, dumped it down on the mattress beside Steel, and unzipped it. It was basically a huge ring binder: large sheets of black paper in clear plastic sleeves, held together with six shiny steel clips. Some photos, some prints, some originals. All pretty good.

  Steel flipped through the pages. ‘Got any nudes?’

  There was a little pocket at the front, with some leaflets for local galleries stuffed into it, and a fancy-looking CV with abstract black-and-white photos mixed in. Very arty.

  ‘Course, you know why he did it, don’t you?’

  Logan looked up. ‘What, Walker?’

  ‘No, Finnie. Sent us out here cos he’s pissed off about Knox going missing – spreading the misery. Petulant tit.’ She looked up at the constable. ‘Anything else? Any missing kitties we should be getting out of trees? Stolen gnomes? Stuff like that?’

  The PC’s cheeks went pink. ‘It’s not my fault. I just—’

  ‘Come on Laz.’ She levered herself off the bed. ‘I hereby declare this a waste of CID resources. Our plucky boys in uniform can save the day for a change. We’ve got a van driver to interview before they let the bugger go.’

  The Airwave handset clipped to the constable’s shoulder started making bleepy noises. He fumbled it round to his mouth and squeezed the button. ‘One-Zero One-Twenty, over?’

  A broad Aberdonian accent crackled out of the little speaker. ‘That you Lachlan?’

  ‘Roger that Control. Over.’

  ‘You still got DS McRae there, Lachlan?’

  ‘Aye…I mean, affirmative. Do you want—’

  ‘Tell the loon to switch his bloody phone on: there’s bin anither of his wee jewellery heists. Mackenzie and Kerr, that place on Huntly Street, next to the naughty knicker shop.’

  Logan hauled out his notebook, flipped it open and scribbled down the jewellery shop’s details. ‘Does he know if—’

  ‘See if you’re going to the naughty knicker shop—’ DI Steel jabbed her elbow in Logan’s ribs.

  ‘Shite!’ Logan flinched. The notebook tumbled from his fingers, splatting down in the puddle of sick.

  Steel blew out her cheeks. ‘Clumsy.’

  ‘It wasn’t clumsy, it was you!’ He looked down
at the vomit-sodden book. No way he was picking that up. Logan grabbed one of Douglas Walker’s fancy CVs, writing ‘MACKENZIE & KERR – HUNTLY ST’ on the back of it. ‘Ask them how much he got away with.’

  The constable relayed Logan’s question.

  ‘Aboot two hunnerd thou, give or take a couply watches.’

  A much better haul than last time.

  ‘And you’re sure it’s the same person?’

  The constable hadn’t even opened his mouth before the voice of Control crackled back, ‘Aye, I’m sure. Yer mannie had a sawn-off sledgehammer and a wee bairn with him.’ There was a pause. ‘And DI Beattie’s looking for you. Something about a flasher?’

  As if Logan didn’t have enough to worry about.

  He flipped open an evidence bag, turned it inside out, then used it as a pooper-scooper to pluck his notebook from the rancid mush. He sealed it closed, the sodden pages feeling cold and slimy through the plastic. ‘Tell him he’ll have to take it up with DI Steel.’

  ‘Turn yer bloody phone on and tell him yoursel!’

  It took over forty minutes to get into the centre of town – a little snow and everyone forgot how to drive, pootling along at ten miles an hour and still managing to crash into things.

  Logan parked the pool car just down from the jewellery shop.

  Huntly Street was a little cobbled road, setting off from Union Street at a jaunty angle. The granite hulk of St Mary’s Cathedral loomed on the other side of the road, a mass of sharp edges and shadow, washed in yellowy streetlight. Thick flakes of white drifted down from the dark-orange sky.

  Mackenzie and Kerr – Jewellers by Appointment to Princess Anne, according to the understated sign above the shattered window – was sealed off behind a cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape, a filthy patrol car sitting right outside it.

  Logan stepped out into the bitterly cold evening, then stood there, waiting for DI Steel to finish staring at the display of basques, suspenders, and shiny leather kinky boots in the window of the shop next door.

  She hitched up her trousers. ‘You need me, I’ll be in there trying on something naughty.’

  Logan picked his way across the slippery cobbles, ducked under the cordon and peered in through Mackenzie and Kerr’s shattered shop window. All the display cabinets lay smashed and empty on the floor, the counter little more than a broken wooden frame. The burgundy carpet was awash with glass, chains of gold and silver trodden into the deep pile.

  He pulled on yet another pair of gloves, hauled the buckled front door open, and stepped inside.

  It smelt vaguely of wee. And dust. And air freshener.

  A handful of rings and bracelets lay scattered on the glass-strewn velvet of the counter.

  A face poked through from a door at the back of the room. ‘Sarge?’ PC Guthrie grinned, his cheeks straining like an overgrown, shaved hamster’s. He chewed, swallowed then pointed over his shoulder. ‘Got the kettle on if you want a brew?’

  Guthrie led the way into a small kitchen, just big enough for a small fridge, kettle, microwave, and breadbin; a half-sized sink and draining board; a tiny table complete with carrot cake; and two wooden chairs. Both occupied by grey-haired women – one in a pink twinset and pearls combo, the other wearing enough tweed to upholster a medium-sized hippopotamus. Which was appropriate.

  PC Guthrie did the introductions. ‘Ladies, this is Detective Sergeant McRae. Sarge, this is Nora Mackenzie and Peggy Ramsay, the owners. They were here when it happened.’

  The tweed hippo pressed a hand to her considerable chest. ‘It was horrible! He went mad, didn’t he Nora?’

  Twinset-and-Pearls nodded, setting the sag of skin beneath her chin wobbling. ‘Smashed everything—’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Kept screaming it wasn’t his fault—’

  ‘On and on. I was terrified, wasn’t I Nora?’

  ‘Look at the state of the place, it’s all ruined!’

  Logan held up his hands. ‘Did either of you get a good look at him?’

  ‘I mean, you read about these things in the papers, but you never think they’ll happen to you, do you?’

  ‘Terrible.’ Nora Mackenzie fingered the pearls around her throat. ‘He was a big man, broad shouldered, and he had a thing…’ She waved a hand in front of her face. ‘Didn’t he Peggy?’

  ‘Glasses and a big pink nose. And one of those bristly moustaches.’

  ‘And a mole, on his cheek.’

  ‘Oh yes, a mole. And a wee toddler in a pushchair.’ Peggy picked at the slice of carrot cake in front of her. ‘Poor little mite. What’s she going to think, growing up with a father like that?’

  ‘It’s a disgrace so it is.’

  Logan looked at Guthrie. ‘You checked with CCTV yet?’

  The constable nodded. ‘They’re running the footage back at HQ.’

  Nora tugged at her pearls. ‘You will catch him, won’t you?’

  Logan pointed through the door at the bombsite shop. ‘You’ve got a security camera?’

  Peggy raised her not inconsiderable frame and lumbered over to a little telly and video recorder, mounted on a bracket in the corner. ‘My nephew James put it in last year.’ She pressed a couple of buttons and the machine whirred for nearly a minute. Then clunked. Then started to play.

  The shop interior appeared on the TV: Peggy rearranging something in a glass-fronted display cabinet. The picture was jerky, probably shooting one frame every two seconds, meaning a single tape would last the whole day. The time stamp at the bottom of the screen said ‘15:28:36’.

  ‘I’ll fast forward.’ She fiddled with the recorder and everything lurched into super-speed. Nora’s grey-haired head appeared behind the counter, swooshing back and forth. A young man came in, bought something, left. More footage of nothing happening. ‘There!’

  The picture slowed to normal speed. A large man wearing a baseball cap had just stepped in from the snowy street, hauling a pushchair after him. Logan watched him bend to talk to the child strapped in the chair, pull something from beneath the blanket and casually stick it between the closing door and the frame. Exactly the same MO as last time.

  Nora and Peggy descended on the little child, smiling and making goo-goo faces.

  The man glanced around the shop while they were busy and the security camera got a perfect shot of his face: big nose, big glasses, big moustache. He was wearing one of those Groucho Marx kits – the only thing missing was the cigar.

  Logan tapped the screen. ‘You didn’t think he looked a bit odd?’

  Nora shrugged. ‘Well, they do these days, don’t they? When my children were wee you gave them a box of plasticine, told them not to eat it, and stuck them in the back garden while you got on with the housework. These days it’s all television, and happy meals, and keeping them entertained the whole time.’

  On screen, Nora turned away from the pushchair, frowned, then picked up the floppy-eared bunny the man had dropped between the door and the frame, and handed it back to the toddler with a smile.

  Peggy waddled over to the counter, where the man was peering into the display case. All nice and friendly.

  Then the sawn-off sledgehammer came out. Peggy backed off, mouth open, hands in the air. Glass went everywhere. Groucho’s gloved hand scooped rings and watches and chains into an Adidas holdall.

  ‘He told me to open the till or he’d break Nora’s legs.’

  On screen, the woman in twinset and pearls crouched down behind the pushchair, hands over her ears. Peggy stop-motion marched to the till and pinged out the cash drawer, flinching back against the wall as he stuffed everything into his bag.

  ‘Of course.’ She raised the uppermost of her chins. ‘I tripped the silent alarm.’

  Bag full, the man hurried for the exit, grabbed the door handle and pulled. Nothing happened. He tugged and yanked, then turned and shouted something at the large woman behind the counter.

  Back in
real life Nora shivered. ‘His language was appalling, and in front of a wee girl too!’

  The sledgehammer battered against the door: once, twice, three times, turning the clear glass into a sagging web of fractures. But it still wouldn’t open. He scrambled into the window display and swung the hammer again. The whole thing shattered, exploding outward in a shower of glittering cubes. Then the man hopped back down on the carpet, and manhandled the pushchair out of the window and onto the street.

  Peggy lumbered around the counter and stared out through the shop front, then Nora stood and swept the much bigger woman up into a hug. Kissed her on the cheek. Then Peggy kissed her back on the lips, and they stood that way for at least a minute, locked together at the mouth, hands in each other’s hair, while the time stamp at the bottom of the screen flickered past.

  Logan cleared his throat and looked away.

  The shop door groaned open and clunked shut, the sound of someone walking over broken glass. ‘Dear Lord it’s cold…’ A red-nosed, red-eared PC Butler appeared in the kitchen doorway. Thick flakes of snow clung to her fluorescent-yellow high-vis ‘POLICE’ vest, and the black jacket underneath.

  ‘Hello, Sarge.’ She stomped her feet, and rubbed her hands. ‘Any chance of a cuppa?’

  Nora filled the kettle from the tap over the tiny sink, and its steamy rumble soon had Butler standing over it, warming her hands over the spout. ‘Been up and down the street: no witnesses.’

  Logan nodded. ‘Right, Guthrie you stay here: watch the shop till someone comes and boards up that window. Get them to do the door too. Ladies, you’ll need to come down to the station. We’ll get you to do an e-fit of the robber, make a formal statement, that kind of thing. Nothing to worry about.’

  Peggy stood, her expansive bosom straining the stitches of all that tweed. ‘Oh I’m not worried. You give me five minutes alone with the animal who did this and I’ll give him something to worry about!’

  She probably would too.

  Logan told Butler to drive the ladies back to the station, then dug out his new phone and dialled the CCTV room at FHQ.

  ‘Fit like’ i day?’

  ‘Inspector Pearce about, Chris?’